'Nother Sip of Gin - Rhys Ford Page 0,64
red triangle flashing at him like he was a bull Rafe was baiting to fight.
The time ticked on until the alarm on Quinn’s phone sent out a loud brrrt, alerting him and everyone in the room they were on a two-minute countdown to the end of the class. Shutting off the klaxon, he turned back to the students hurriedly shoving laptops and everything else they’d taken out into backpacks, prepping to scurry away to their next class.
“Does anyone have any last questions?” It was a long shot. If there’d been any confusion, the class would have burbled it out during the lecture, but it was something to be done. A lone hand raised up, and Quinn sighed, drawing his eyes up to the smirking rock star sitting near the door. “Does anyone who attends this school have any last questions?”
“Hey, Doc,” Rafe drawled, his rough, hint-of-slow voice curling around each word, caressing Quinn even as he tried to ignore Rafe. “You having office hours today?”
“No, Mr. Andrade.” He returned Rafe’s cocky grin with a stern look. “Although if a student is having issues, I’ll be happy to arrange a time if they can’t make my posted hours.”
“Awesome. Then you and I can lock the door and have a picnic,” Rafe said, standing to let one of Quinn’s students get by him. “Pack up your magic marker, babe. I’ve got a can of whipped cream with your name written all over it.”
“I CANNOT believe you said that,” Quinn grumbled, coating a plump ripe strawberry with a heavy dollop of whipped cream. “How the hell am I supposed to teach in that class now? They think I’m kind of some sex-crazed loon.”
“Honey, you’re wound up so tight sometimes, I’m sure they were just happy to see you’ve got someone in your life.” Rafe picked a stem off of a seedless black grape before placing it on Quinn’s plate. The love seat was a tight fit for them, but Quinn didn’t mind. A quick shuffle of a file cabinet and they had an ad hoc table to lay out everything Rafe brought with him for their impromptu picnic. “And they laughed when you asked if I brought enough strawberries. You’re fine. They don’t think you’re a pervert. Although from the looks some of them gave you, it kind of blows my mind they’re not blinking at you with I love you written on their eyelids.”
“I am not Indiana Jones,” Quinn pointed out. “And no one has ever done that.”
“Only because you probably wouldn’t notice.” Rafe destemmed another grape. “Open up. Incoming.”
Once the grape was secure on his tongue, Quinn chewed, then swallowed. “I’m surprised no one came up to you to ask for a photo or autograph.”
“That’s because I’m the bassist. Best part about it, all of the glory and none of the fame.” Helping himself to one of the strawberries, Rafe waylaid Quinn’s protest with a wave of his hand. “And before you say that they come at me after a show, that’s because I’m in context. That’s a good word. Miki and Damie are the faces of the band. Forest and I just reap the benefits and go shopping at one in the afternoon without being mobbed by people. So it’s a win-win for us. This frees me up for having smexy time with my doc boyfriend whenever I want.”
“We are not having sex in this office,” Quinn warned. “That’ll get me fired. And I like my job. I like teaching history through food influences or examining the evolution of tattoos and their cultural significance. I love you but—”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a dance.” Rafe chuckled, brushing his hands off. Standing up, he held his hand out to Quinn. “Come on, babe. Today’s a special day, actually. One we didn’t take advantage of when we were in high school, and I think it’s time we fixed that.”
“What are you talking about?” Rafe’s fingers were callused, rough from guitar strings and endless hours of playing. There were tiny scars from snapped wires digging into the back of his hand and a pucker on the webbing of his right thumb where he’d hooked it during a fishing excursion they’d all taken when Quinn was ten. He loved Rafe’s hands, loved the feel of them on his body, but right now, Quinn eyed the outstretched hand suspiciously.
“Trust me, magpie. It’ll be worth it, because today is the however-many-year anniversary of our senior prom, and since we didn’t get to dance